


Aristophanes and Aesop

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hours after the Battle of Hogwarts, Severus has been found alive - but he seems to be in need of help, both magically and emotionally. Horace would never have expected to be the man for the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aristophanes and Aesop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verdeckt](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Verdeckt).



> Written for verdeckt, in the peerless hoggywartyxmas exchange, with the prompt, "Snape does not die from Nagini's bite. How does he behave without his anchor, his purpose, his ballast? ...Is it too late, or can that be made to change?"

"They say he has a chance."   
  
"Hhhmmmpph?" Horace stirred in his armchair, pulling himself upright like a walrus with a bad cold. "What was that? Who? When?" He peered around the staffroom, seeking the source of the voice.  
  
Minerva had been awake for forty hours and counting, but she was clearly trying her best to not let it show. "Severus. -I've just come back from the hospital wing. They think he could pull through."  
  
"Really? Gosh, is that so?" Horace was fully animated, now - and automatically contemplating the last vestiges of dark chocolate in the box to his side. "But how is that possible? He must have lost so much blood..."  
  
"Yes." Minerva nodded, and squinted, as if the world was beginning to split in her vision. She inhaled slowly, through her nose. "The ways of Dark magic are mysterious; he must have been very careful. Some sort of suspended animation charm, they're saying."  
  
"Golly."  
  
"Indeed." A long pause, as she collapsed in the armchair to Horace's side. Minerva pushed her spectacles away, and rubbed her eyes. "I just... I just don't know what to think. All year he behaved like  _that_ , and now Harry says... and Albus, and-"  
  
"-Shhhhh." Horace reached over and placed his hand on Minerva's. "You don't need to think anything - not right now. To bed with you, m'girl."  
  
"I can't! Something might happen; the students... the castle falling to bits... might at any moment..."  
  
"And you may well fall to bits if you don't go and grab forty winks, mmmm?" He was not forceful, but they both knew Horace had good sense on his side.   
  
"But what if-?"  
  
"-'What if', nothing, you silly thing. Look, I'll hold the fort, now, and if anything of note happens, I'll deal with it. I insist."  
  
Minerva glowered, just a bit, but then yielded. Wearily, she climbed out of the armchair and headed toward the door. "But if anything  _really_  important-"  
  
"-Yes; I'll come and get you. But now, off!" He shooed her extravagantly, and was somewhat gratified when it actually worked. Minerva McGonagall must be exhausted indeed, if he could bully her into bed.   
  
 _As it were._  Horace snorted at his own little joke and then demolished those last bits of chocolate with gusto.  
  
He pondered the warm darkness outside, and the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the chimneypiece. It was late - pushing early. The ruins of the castle lay in the grounds, brick by stone by dismembered gargoyle looking up blankly to the stars. Horace was still sitting in his green silk pyjamas, and they still had singe-marks from Voldemort's wand.  
  
Amazingly, though - and perhaps for the first time he could really remember - he did not feel scared. That dreadful sick feeling that had plagued him for years was... well, just not there. Extraordinary! He allowed himself a little chuckle - not because anything was funny, but just at the sheer luck of still being there - alive, and not terrified any longer.  
  
The moment could not quite last, though, and Horace chastised himself; it was quite wrong to be feeling so bloody happy when such pain had come to pass - and of course, he did mourn. In some ways it felt surpassingly terrible, all those young folk gone in a flash, on an early May night; being a Slytherin didn't mean he was completely heartless, after all.  
  
And speaking of Slytherins - Severus, eh? Alive? Horace reflected on that - the latest in the line of revelations pertaining to the man, and no less eye-opening than the others.  
  
He  _had_  been a bit of a bastard, Horace mused. A lot of bastard, truth be told, and not at all the sort of chap with whom one might wish to dine - a miserable, underfed little thing, and formidable, to boot.   
  
But what bravery beneath the surface, eh? What talent! Once again, Horace congratulated himself upon having picked-out a good student early. He had always known Severus was a bright one; too bad, he thought, that he had only rarely accepted Slug Club invitations, all those years ago.   
  
Mooning on the past did not suit his mood, however. Even the Slug Club didn't seem to matter, all that much. How about what happens next? The  _future_. Horace once again grinned a little, just thinking that he might have a future. It really was a fantastic notion - like a big, wide ocean opening up in front of him when he had thought he was heading to the upper-edge of a waterfall. Not a shabby thought to be having, at his age; not shabby at all.  
  
To that end, what would become of Severus now, assuming he really did pull through? The lad might well have a tough time at first - he likely had quite a lot of explaining to do - but there were so many opportunities; he was only young, after all, and if Horace could feel as if the world was his oyster, surely a thirty-something year-old would be pondering the whole catch.   
  
The past was done. It made perfect sense that he had harboured a soft spot for Lily Evans, if young Harry's tale was true. Who wouldn't? Charming girl - if one is into girls, that is. There's no use in crying over spilt butterbeer, though, thought Horace; best to fill up another glass.  
  
Thus, he levitated over a decanter from the sideboard and poured a little snifter of something to see him through the night. Contentedly, Horace snuggled down in his wingback chair, and with thoughts of his new-found responsible position of Acting Headmaster While Awake, and a second box of chocolates.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
"Whhaaaaa?" Horace was sure he hadn't fallen asleep, but the drool on his dressing gown shoulder-pad seemed to suggest otherwise. He focussed swiftly, to find Poppy hovering in the doorframe.  
  
"Sorry to wake you, Horace, but I think someone ought to see this." She disappeared into the corridor, clear that he was to follow, and then led on to the hospital wing - more quickly than strictly necessary, in Horace's opinion; he really wasn't built for running.  
  
Lying in a pure-white bed, Severus looked terrible; his face was nearly the same colour as the sheets and no number of healing charms could quite disguise the dreadful gash in his throat. Most remarkable of all, though, was the translucent, glowing orb that hovered above his chest.  
  
 _Surely not?_  Horace thought, glimpsing the thing. He had read of such magic, in years past - at the same sort of literary voracious period in his life when he learned about Horcruxes, and werefolk, and other such things that were even worse than the club running out of Gentleman's Relish for elevenses - but had never witnessed it in real life.   
  
"Any ideas, at all?" asked Poppy, sounding desperate. "It appeared just a while ago, almost out of his body. It moves if I move him and won't budge, but it does seem to be getting fainter. No spell will identify it, and any sort of charm just bounces off. I can't help but think he might come round, if only that  _thing_  would go away. It seems to be acting as a block."  
  
"A supra-corporeal Patronus," breathed Horace. "You might say it's stopping him from waking - you could also say it's stopping him from dying." He took a deep breath. Stabbing in the dark was all very well, but there was a fine Slughorn brain in there somewhere, beneath all the fluff and cobwebs. For the first time in years, he felt as if it might truly be getting an outing. "I wager it has lost its form because it somehow kept him this side of the veil when it really mattered - absorbed some of the Dark magic, you see. Almost as if someone from over  _there_  was helping him." He laughed weakly; this was all becoming a bit too profound for comfort.  
  
"Ah, but what can we do for him?"  
  
"Ha. Well. I'm afraid my book-learning only get us so far." He pondered - then, perhaps with some resignation, fell back to the sensible choice. "I suppose I'll have to go and wake Minerva. Or Filius; he might have an idea."  
  
Poppy nodded, and Horace turned to the door, determined to go with sure haste, but perhaps to not get so horribly out of breath this time. It wouldn't do to exhaust himself, as well, now would it?  
  
His progress was interrupted, however, by a cry from the patient surveillance charms surrounding Severus' bed. His heartbeat was fading, breathing almost gone. Poppy had flown into emergency-mode, applying every standard paramedic charm in the book, but, as Horace cantered back to the bedside, he could see that nothing was working... the alarms squealed louder... Severus was almost gone, and-  
  
"-Expecto Patronum!" Horace was not sure what had caused him to cast that spell, but his wand was in his hand, emitting beams of luminescence, all the same. With leisurely pace, a plump, silvery bullfrog hopped through the air toward the orb - which was now blinking, ever fainter, above Severus' prone form. It paused before the sphere, as if staring into water - and then, very slowly, extended one webbed foot to touch. At that contact, the orb pulsated and flashed - almost as if in relief - and then began to form a shape. Four legs... head... mottled amphibious skin.... and very soon, a lithe, slender little frog was sitting beside Horace's Patronus, freshly born and looking curious.  
  
Suddenly, they both disappeared into wisps of mist, and a soft groan came from the bed.  
  
Poppy darted over. "Severus. Severus, can you hear me?"  
  
Slowly, painfully, his eyes cracked open. They narrowed at the sudden light, and then tried once more, this time seeming to gain focus.  
  
"Severus, it's Poppy. You're in the hospital wing. Do you understand?"  
  
Again, there came no response. Poppy and Horace exchanged worried glances. She eyed the charmed monitors, which displayed strengthening signs of life, but also began to cast spells to assess alertness, sight and hearing functions, and those to recognise mental impairment.  
  
Her work was interrupted, however, when a low voice came from below: "Of course I bloody understand. What's for breakfast?"  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
"-But the point is, what are we to do with him?" If it seemed as if the conversation was going around in circles, it's because it was. Pomona took a turn to voice the question, this time. All the staff looked weary as they sat around the large oak table - their fourth meeting that week, even though there were no students in the castle.  
  
"I've told you all I can," sighed Poppy, "All the tests come back normal. He's physically convalescing remarkably well - helped by a decent appetite, for once - but seems thoroughly unwilling to interact. He won't even speak to me, now, let alone  _try_. He doesn't read, or write, or brew; he just sits there."  
  
"He never was a sociable sort," put in Rolanda, "I barely notice the difference."  
  
"Come now, that's hardly the way to talk about one of our war heroes, now is it?" said Filius, trying to smooth the waters.  
  
"-But the problem is," Minerva cut in, "The world at large is currently perfectly unaware of the heroic activities of one Severus Snape. As far as they're concerned, he is still one of the darstardliest Death Eaters, presumed dead - or wished so. And given that the latest word from Kingsley suggests the Ministry won't be ready for an announcement for at least the next three months..."  
  
"-We have to bloody put up with him, here. Really, it's like having a Dementor in the dungeons." Rolanda huffed, and slumped further on the table. "It's not even as if he's being useful."  
  
Minerva furrowed her brow. "Yes, I honestly don't understand. I've done all I can to make him feel valued - to try to get him back to normal. I've given Severus all of the Potions NEWT papers to mark - but he won't touch them - I've asked him to replenish the painkilling potions in the hospital wing - but his cauldron's as dry as a bone. Merlin, I've even asked him to write down the names of all the students who deserve detention when they get back in the Autumn - but not a single scribble! I would have thought  _that_ , if nothing else, would get the pen flowing. I just don't understand why it isn't working; he always used to throw himself into his duties, and now-"  
  
"-Then perhaps the poor lad just needs some fun, not more duties?" That had come out more forcefully than Horace had intended, but the words had just seemed to bubble up from within.  
  
A long pause followed. "Fun? Severus Snape?" Rolanda's tone was incredulous.  
  
"I've never seen him actually  _enjoy_  anything," added Pomona. "He just doesn't seem the sort."  
  
"Well, perhaps there you have your problem," replied Horace, "Why  _would_  he get up and do things, if there's nothing in a day to look forward to? I know I wouldn't!"  
  
At that, a small light seemed to turn on behind Poppy's eyes. "Then, perhaps, it should be you, Horace, to try to help him." She looked to Minerva for approval.  
  
The Headmistress raised her eyebrows, considering. "Well, I suppose nothing else seems to have worked. Very good, Horace - Severus is now your responsibility."  
  
"But..." Horace opened his mouth to object; this was certainly not what he had intended; he had  _plans_  for the rest of the summer, after all.  
  
"'But' nothing. I look forward to seeing immediate results." Minerva gave a particularly feline grin. The minx. "Now, I think we all agree that it's supper time. Meeting adjourned."  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
Making his way down to the dungeons, Horace was still undecided. It was hardly as if his relationship with Severus had been particularly chummy in the past. Not hostile - oh no, certainly not; Slytherins would know better than that - but what with Severus having spent the past however-many years as a triple-double-agent-Death-Eater, that hadn't exactly left much time for friendly repartee.  
  
He paused, mid-staircase - out of thoughtfulness, not breathlessness, Horace assured himself. It was frightfully difficult to jolly someone along when one did not really know the person in the first place. To be frank, Severus was - always had been - a closed book. Horace was well-practised with knowing how to approach people; indeed, he prided himself upon it as a particular skill. Some would be flobberworms in his hands at the promise of Quidditch tickets; some, a night at the opera; others - the serious ones - far more content with an invitation to peruse his impressive personal library. Then, of course, the wheels would be oiled, and whatever far more valuable thing it was that Horace  _really_  wanted would be winging its way to him like a Thestral after a fillet mignon. Indeed, it was usually most satisfactory - and he did have high hopes of getting back on the pony, now all that unpleasantness was over - but his tactics did not seem to be much use to him in this case, when the boy wouldn't even  _read_.  
  
He had arrived at Severus' door by that point, and found himself knocking. Still without anything resembling much of a plan, Horace was struck by how gung-ho he was feeling, despite it all. In for a knut, in for a galleon, eh? Gosh, this  _still being alive_  business really was doing him the power of good.  
  
The door cracked open, and Severus' impressive nose poked through, framing only a blank expression. "What do you want?" The voice was without bite, as flat as the moors in winter.  
  
 _Well, at least he's talking to me,_  thought Horace. Then however, it truly was crunch-time. What  _did_  he want? 'I've been sent here on sufferance,' really wouldn't cut the mustard, and without a specific idea, it was difficult to...  
  
A very loud rumble from Horace's stomach interrupted his thoughts, and the stretching silence.  
  
"Dinner!" Yes, that was it; no one could possibly object to dinner. Horace was buoyed then, and extended his best smile beneath the moustache.  
  
"Dinner?" Severus repeated the word as if it were an alien concept. He did relax the aperture of the doorway a touch, though, revealing his dour, black robes.  
  
"Yes, dinner. Out of here. With you."  
  
Severus continued to gaze, almost as if he did not understand. He retreated from the door, but left it open; Horace took that as an invitation inside.  
  
"So, what say you?" Horace continued, "Come out with me - mmmm, yes?" It was feeling a bit strained, now, but he maintained the charm - even when Severus sunk back into an armchair, looking blankly out of the window.  
  
The silence stretched once more. Horace resisted the urge to tap his fingers, but the awkwardness was definitely reaching new heights. Finally, without changing his expression, Severus spoke. "What do you people want of me, now?"  
  
Horace had never heard someone sound so perfectly weary; his heart jumped in his chest for the poor lad, old before his time. "Nothing, dear boy! Nothing at all. I promise you, there's absolutely no catch. No tasks, no duties. You have the Slughorn word of honour on that."  
  
Again, Severus did not respond. It was as if Horace's words were travelling through a very thick fog, taking several moments to traverse the mere feet that separated them. Finally, he uttered something once more: "No. What's the point?"  
  
Now this was a question that Horace  _could_  answer. "What's the point? Well, m'boy - where to start?!   
  
"Fun! Sparkle! Deliciousness! New things and places and ideas and smells and sights and tastes. That sense of excitement that comes with waking up to a day of leisure; exciting appointments to keep - but only ones that you chose in the first place; doing exactly what you want, when you want, with no-one to say you can't.   
  
"The sunrise over Lebanon! Gondolas in Venice! Thirty-seven kinds of cheese on a French mountainside and then back home for hot chocolate with a roaring log fire!" He left a pause, to let it all sink-in. "Come, m'boy. Make a start at life. - Come to dinner." Horace was exhilarated at his own words. He felt warm and bubbly inside, just at that opportunity to be enthusiastic.   
  
Severus hadn't answered, but he had turned in his chair - upright and attention caught, eyes narrowed slightly in Horace's direction. There was clearly a battle going on in there, so Horace dived in for the clincher: "Besides," He left a portentous gap - there was nothing like a bit of theatre - "What exactly do you have to lose?"  
  
At that, Severus looked if he had been punched in the gut, turning away once more. Horace worried he had gone too far, and remained stock-still, not daring to speak again as he eyed the young man warily.  
  
Then, all of a sudden, Severus leapt to his feet. "Fine. You're right. I've absolutely nothing left to lose. I'll do what you will."  
  
"Super! That's m'boy." Horace stood up, too, and patted Severus heartily on the back, noting the spiky shoulder blades as he did so. The old Slughorn charm hadn't failed him yet, had it, now? All was going swimmingly, after all. "I'll meet you at the castle gates in an hour - and wear Muggle clothes. I don't hold much shtick with this house-arrest nonsense, as long as we're careful, mmmm?"  
  
Severus shrugged. "As you wish."  
  
"Excellent; 'til then!" Horace gave a florid mock-bow and then rolled back along the dungeon corridors to his rooms, planning exactly which velvet smoking jacket and coordinating cravat he would don. Such things are important, you know.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
Severus was fastidiously punctual, and also fastidiously dressed, in a dark suit and tie. Not exactly a cheerful choice - especially when set against Horace's resplendent purple and lilac number, with matching spats and umbrella - but perfectly fit for purpose. Horace extended a warm greeting, and was gratified to receive at least a nod, in return.  
  
They walked calmly along the path, and when clear of the winged boars, Horace apparated them both to his destination of choice - a fabulously polished-brass-and-flunky-waiter establishment in the West End of London. Provisioned by its own game reserves in the North, and with a French cellar to die for, this restaurant was one of Horace's favourites. As he peered through the windows, Severus looked somewhat unconvinced - and Horace was struck for a moment by that image: the poor boy looking through glass to some happy, comfortable place to which he was not usually admitted. It therefore gave him some satisfaction to usher the lad through the door and to be guided by an immaculate waiter to their table.  
  
Settling into a velvet-decked booth, Horace ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot for starters, and then took up the menu. "So, what'll you have, m'boy? I certainly recommend the oysters, but then again, the lobster is excellent, too... Mmmmm; very difficult, ve-ry difficult..."  
  
"I will... go with your recommendation," Severus replied, evenly.  
  
Horace couldn't help but grin; he like being deferred to, when the occasion was appropriate. "Splendid! We can have one of everything." And when the waiter returned, he was almost exactly true to his word - with a goodly number of different wines to match.   
  
"...I thought it particularly important to go with a Gewurztraminer to pick out the sweetness of the pheasant," explained Horace, when the waiter had gone. "A Rhone would have done, but as the dish comes with caramelized apples, the tannins might well jar. And then there was the venison. Tricky, that one, I tell you. In the end, I thought a Gamay would work best, but I'm a bit nervous, given the sommelier said there wasn't anything older than the 1982 vintage, and the elements in that might be yet to quite marry..."  
  
Severus nodded, taking all that in as Horace spoke; indeed, he almost seemed to be suppressing a wry smile. Horace threw him a questioning look, and then there came a pause as Severus seemed to be debating whether to answer. Eventually, he acquiesced: "It seems a lot of hard work, this dedication-to-pleasure thing that you do. I would have never thought there could be room in a wizard's brain for so much frivolous knowledge."  
  
It was clearly double-edged. Horace knew he was being mocked, but at the same time he gave a little internal whoop at the first evidence that the Snapeine snark was beginning to resurface.   
  
"Not hard work at all, m'boy!" he replied, smoothly, "I'll teach you all I know." Horace raised his flute in toast, and was gratified when Severus grudgingly held his own aloft, to meet it.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
From that first dinner onwards, Horace and Severus had fallen into a near-nightly routine of outings, trips, jollies and excursions. They had been to the opera, the ballet, numerous champagne sporting events, tastings, dinners, museum openings - indeed, everything and anything that Horace could find, and remembered fondly. Severus' only stipulation was that he was unwilling to be forced to socialize with anyone else - and although that cramped Horace's style a bit, he was willing to work with it.  
  
As for Horace, he was having the time of his life! It took a certain dedication to indulge so assiduously, and he hadn't done so on quite such a scale since he was a young deb, trotting around the scene with all the other bright young girls and boys. Especially the boys.   
  
Horace chuckled to himself, as memories of youthful escapades returned. He had been jolly lucky, really, to have had such a super time in his formative years - and there was something lovely about being able to offer a taste of the same thing to a boy who had missed out so thoroughly when it should have been his turn. This whole set-up had started as a chore, but it was becoming a pleasure.  
  
Sitting comfortably with a pre-prandial glass of brandy, Horace reflected. He had not really known Severus at all when the venture had started, but he was becoming increasingly fond of the lad. It turned out they had plenty in common, conversationally - both were well-read and liked to tinker-about with the cauldron from time to time. Both had a fondness for classical music, and a general distaste for politics and politicians. They agreed on most of the traits required in a decent student, and even when they disagreed, it had remained perfectly cordial. Severus kept him on his toes, that was for sure - and so entertaining it was, he found he didn't mind at all when the wry remark in question was at his own expense. Indeed, Horace found that his outings with Severus formed very much part of the post-war  _joie de vivre_  he had promised himself; what a turn-up for the books, that was!  
  
Now, three weeks in, the other members of staff had even begun subtly - perhaps even grudgingly - to congratulate Horace on his success. Severus still refused to socialize within the castle - staying firmly in his quarters and not having any guests, save the elves who brought breakfast and lunch on a tray - but it was clear to all that so much willingness to go out of an evening must have some significance. Horace only hoped that their optimism was not misplaced.  
  
The signs, however, were good. Much to Horace's pleasure, Severus seemed to be willing to try - and, indeed, enjoy - most of the epicurean delights he had been offered, for one thing. Foie gras with Sauternes; caviar and overproof vodka; chocolate ganache with Pedro Ximenez. The lad was even beginning to have his own opinions about what was really excellent - which were all the more interesting to Horace, because they did not accord perfectly with his own. It seemed that Severus favoured the darker, gamier flavours most - and perhaps unsurprisingly, he did not have a sweet tooth that was quite a match for Horace's. Few people did, after all.  
  
There was something about Severus that was becoming almost comfortable, too. Now, that was a surprise. It seemed to work on both physical and conversational levels; he was no longer all sharp angles and pasty skin, and when he made a waspish comment, it seemed intended to amuse, not to injure. A touch of good living seemed to be doing him the power of good, and there was now a little bit of flesh on his bones, and a flush in his cheeks that could not be attributed entirely to the claret.   
  
That night, they were going to the opera in Paris. A bit of a stretch to internationally Floo on a weeknight, it was true, but with Wizarding Britain out of the question, there were only so many Muggle haunts that were of sufficient quality to frequent. The tickets had been jolly expensive, but luckily, the Slughorn coffers were more than up to the task. There had to be some use to being the sole heir to a decent pile, after all, and Horace did not resent it one bit.   
  
Indeed, he had made it abundantly clear, early on, that not only was he willing, he absolutely  _insisted_  on footing all of the bills - so luckily, that sort of awkwardness never arose. He was certain that Severus could be insufferably stubborn about such a thing, if he chose to be - but it seemed that he had just decided not to, as part and parcel of the whole 'nothing to lose' attitude.  
  
That last thought gave Horace pause, and he furrowed his brow, swirling the brandy in his glass. The boy had been so desolate at first; he had agreed to come to dinner in the same spirit that he might have agreed to throw himself off a cliff. But how  _was_  he, now? Was it all just some detached experiment in options-likely-inferior-to-ending-it-all, or might something be actually changing, beneath the surface?  
  
Of course, Horace couldn't really tell. He knew that Severus was probably the most adept man in Britain at hiding his thoughts and feelings, should he so wish - so he, Horace, did not presume to have a chance at guessing.   
  
And besides, a chap didn't pry into such things, did he, now? Someone of Horace's ilk would have to be jolly sozzled indeed to let slip anything in the deeper-feelings category, let alone ask about it; sadly, the silver spoon and tweed set-up just didn't leave room for that sort of thing.  
  
He swirled his drink again, and opted to quickly glug the remainder. There were dress robes to choose, and a moustache to curl, after all - and that Floo departure wouldn't be waiting.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
"I think we... should have... another bottle." Severus listed slightly as he said so, but was otherwise doing a remarkable impression of uprightness, considering the firewhisky.  
  
"Maybe not, eh?" Horace grinned, his own head swimming more than usual. He supposed, however, that this evening's tasting had specifically been of the 'hard stuff'; an Irish Still Festival in mid-July would not be anything but.  
  
"Okay. I think we should have... two more bottles." Severus seemed deadly serious, and tried fixing Horace with his most Headmasterly stare. It nearly worked. Or, at least, it worked until such a point as he lost his balance, staggered a bit, and then doubled over, laughing. The sound was surprisingly light, like spring raindrops on the roof. In his haze, Horace found that he liked it very much indeed.  
  
"Ha. Maybe something a bit weaker, for starters, mmmm?" Horace signalled to the waiter and ordered two glasses of malt bitters. "You really seemed to like that '57, yes?"  
  
"Excellent. Truly excellent," replied Severus, heartily, "Maybe a shadow too much...sandalwood... but otherwise a superb year. Is there any more?" He raised his glass with mock-innocence, and Horace could not but help pouring the last few drips from the bottle therein. It seemed the boy could be a bit of a charmer.  
  
"Anything to keep you happy, eh?" Horace had meant it flippantly - dare he even think, flirtily - but the effect upon Severus, however, seemed to be the opposite of his intentions.  
  
The lad gazed down into his glass, all of a sudden a million miles away. "Happy," he repeated, "Happy..." He slumped a little; Horace worried that he might have passed out.   
  
Then, however, Severus climbed back to a sitting position with his elbows. He hung his head in his hands, and started to speak once more - quietly, and directed to the dregs of firewhisky before him. "I don't really know what  _'happy'_  feels like. It never really figured... before... There was just so much to do, so much danger and... and now... just so... empty..."  
  
By that, Horace was caught unawares. They had been having such a jolly time, and this soul-searching seemed to have popped up out of nowhere, like the Room of Requirement. His stiff upper-lip was somewhat loosened by the liquor, however, and it didn't feel too-terribly-awkward to give Severus a good pat on the back. If his hand might have lingered there for longer than strictly necessary, that was surely also the whiskey.  
  
"It's gone, you know." Severus sounded desolate.  
  
"What's that, m'boy?" Horace did his best to be gentle.  
  
"My Patronus. I can't... cast one... anymore. It's like, everything before... I remember it, of course I bloody remember it... but it's as if it's not...  _here_... anymore." He struck his chest, to make the point.  
  
Horace was beginning to feel a bit twitchy. Such talk of Patronuses: should he tell Severus all that he suspected? He hadn't mentioned that little incident in the hospital wing to anyone else, and out of consideration for her patients, he was pretty sure that Poppy had also kept schtum; what happens on her wards, stays on her wards, after all.  
  
It really didn't seem the time, though, Horace told himself - not when Severus was as sozzled as a Kneazle in catnip, and he, too, was halfway there. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his mind - a familiar one, perhaps, but not one of which he was very proud - that said he was  _afraid_. He didn't want Severus to think that he had been tricked, or lied to, or affected in some way beyond his control; not when they had been getting on so well. Not when they had tickets to the races booked for Saturday afternoon, and when Horace couldn't quite imagine going about the place on his own, anymore. Not now they were friends.  
  
So, the kinder side of Slytherin in force, Horace did his best to add salve. "Tush, don't take on so, eh, lad?" He rubbed small circles between Severus shoulder blades, conveniently forgetting for a while that chaps didn't really behave like that. "You did an awful lot of bloody marvellous things, back there, and it's only natural that you might feel pretty knocked-for-six after it all. You've got to give yourself time. -And as for that Patronus business..." Horace weighed his words, being careful not to let anything slip, "Maybe it's for the best, mmmmm? It'll come back. Perhaps... who knows? Perhaps even in a different shape. Ha!" He tried not to sound hysterical. "But it  _will_  come back.   
  
"And in the meantime, think of it not as a loss, but as an opportunity! It's gone - maybe for a very good and helpful reason, you never know - but with it, you can leave behind all of that unpleasantness, and all of those reasons to be anxious and upset about the past. You've got your future ahead of you, now, m'boy. You can do whatever you like! But first of all, you need to fill up with enough happiness to cast that spell again - and a jolly good one, it will be too, or I'm not a Slughorn!" Horace took a deep breath to check himself. He was getting quite passionate about it all, and the little bit of his brain that was still relatively uninebriated didn't quite trust the rest not to give anything away. He cleared his throat, not wanting to quaver, and re-pitched his voice to be calm and plummy: "So, my dear Severus. Onward and upward."  
  
A very long pause stretched between them, then - Severus statue-like in his scrutiny of the table; he might have been considering all that Horace had said, or he might have just been slipping into a doze. Finally, however, he looked up and met Horace in the eye with his gaze. It was clear and sharp - more so than it had been at any other point that evening - or indeed, that month. "Perhaps you're right."  
  
Horace nodded, then reached out and covered Severus' clasped hands with a broad palm of his own. Severus did not flinch, and they stayed like that, quietly together, until the waiter arrived with drinks.

 

 

*****

Horace paused as he was packing his overnight bag - the maroon one with the Art Nouveau buckles - and took stock.  
  
Three months, as it was, in to this project, and there was still no sign of the Ministry pardon. The new term was beginning to loom; only four weeks to go, and then both he and the school would be run ragged again by the demands of a new crop of bright-eyed youngsters - not to mention the somewhat wilier ones who would be making a return. It was a jolly good job that he had discovered a new lease of life of late, thought Horace; being Head of Slytherin was challenge enough for even a much younger man. Such thoughts of Heads of Slytherin - and, indeed, of younger men - inevitably led back to Severus. It seemed that most thoughts did, these days.  
  
Ever since their drunken chat in the whiskey bar a few weeks previous, Severus seemed somehow... better. Tentatively so, of course - one still mustn't rush these things - but he had become more proactive in planning their escapades, making suggestions and doing some research as to where was supposed to be good. His budding interest in food and wine had really gathered speed - and with that keen brain and sense of smell, in force, Horace reckoned that Severus could now give him a run for his money in telling a Vouvray from a Viognier and a Chablis from a Chardonnay.  
  
During the daytimes, too - when Horace was still engaged in the serious business of rebuilding the castle and seemingly endless meetings - Severus had sometimes been spotted walking by the lake or in the Forest, and it was clear that the books on his shelf moved a touch, from one day to the next.  
  
It was a sunny Saturday morning, and this weekend, Horace was taking the unusual step of removing them both from the castle; other duties be damned. They were headed to a party that one of his old Russian friends was holding in St. Petersburg. That, in itself, represented something of a bound forward. For all his gregariousness when it was just the two of them, Severus had remained absolutely adamant that he did not wish to have to deal with anyone else - least of all, the other denizens of the castle. It was jolly silly, really - but Severus was known for his stubbornness, and Horace did not wish to push it.  
  
Besides, he couldn't help but feel rather flattered: that this bright, fascinating and fantastically talented young man seemed content to have him, and  _only_  him as companion. For all his fine connections and important friends, Horace felt a little bubble of pleasure like no other, whenever he thought of it, and it was quite clear that he was forcefully  _not_  entertaining the notion of a time when it would come to an end.  
  
This weekend didn't count, though; not really. Horace would be sharing Severus with just some of his old friends, not the world at large - and the more sensible side of his brain insisted that it was excellent progress.  
  
Horace hunted around for a while for his monogrammed velvet slippers, but then Summoned them with a charm. Packing and unpacking was a bit of a fag, but what with the dizziness and disorientation, all that International Flooing - damn the Ministry for their bureaucracy - was beginning to take its toll.  
  
-Not to mention the food and wine! Horace was used to it, of course - if anything, going out every evening was probably more abstemious for him than staying at home with a full decanter of brandy and an entire box of crystallized pineapple - but he was pretty sure that Severus had been taking up his cauldron again to brew some hangover-cure potions, if nothing else. It was also clear that the boy was getting just a  _little_  bit chubby. Horace thought it all very endearing: that glow in his face, the newfound shapeliness of his rear, the hint of roundness to his tummy. It was the signature of a  _bon viveur_  in the making, Horace would attest, and a clear mark of altogether the  _right-kind-of-chap._  He approved heartily, and felt just a little proud.  
  
Indeed, Horace would decline to consider himself so shallow that physical appearance should hold great sway over such things, but for some reason or other - perhaps several reasons at once - he had caught himself thinking of Severus in ways other than the platonic or filial of late.   
  
He had to admit that he was more than a little  _attracted._  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
After checking in to their respective rooms at the curlicued hotel, the pair set off to the mansion in a unicorn-drawn carriage.   
  
"Nothing like Russians for extravagance," Horace mused, gesturing at walls lined with cherry-coloured silk, and the beasts in front.  
  
Severus took that on board with an amused nod, smoothing down his new dress robes as they folded in his lap. Framed thus, he was quite the picture, and Horace found his breath caught by it.  
  
"-I must say, m'boy, you do look resplendent." He had insisted on buying Severus a new outfit for the occasion: emerald green with silver highlights - and the robes appeared even finer than in Madam Malkin's when draped over the lad's elegant form.   
  
Severus muttered, "Thank you," at the compliment, sounding almost shy. The air in the carriage suddenly seemed very close; for some indiscernible reason, it felt like an important evening.   
  
Horace was keen to keep the conversation flowing, however, and flipped into his typical mode of jollying Severus along. "So, you've girded your loins - as it were - to meet my old chums? I promise they don't bite. Unless you ask nicely, that is. Ha!" He had meant it reassuringly - maybe even soothing his own nerves, just a little.  
  
He was therefore quite unprepared for the serious expression on Severus' face that followed. "Yes, I believe... I am ready."  
  
There was a sense that something rather momentous was about to happen, though Horace could not quite put his finger on what. It made him feel uncharacteristically uneasy.  
  
At that second, however, the carriage stopped, affording no further time for such chat. "That's spiffing, then," Horace ad-libbed, trying not to dwell too much the unsettled sense in his stomach, "Here we go, then."  
  
A flurry of footmen, doormen and under-butlers descended, each seeming as neatly pressed as their rigid uniforms, and covered in more gold braid than one could have imagined possible without risk of suffocation. Horace did rather enjoy the spectacle; such nice young men, such snugly-fitting trousers. He hopped out of the carriage, making the most of all the assistance on offer, and waited until Severus was at his side before climbing the grand steps to the front entrance and sweeping - or, more accurately,  _waddling_  - though the double doors flung wide.  
  
His own ambulatory limitations aside, Horace was once again very much struck by how Severus  _did_  look the part. So tall and aloof; brilliant posture, beautiful figure. Now,  _he_  really did  _sweep_. It was uncanny to think that just a few months previous, the boy had been lost and unsocialized - for all his three and a half decades, a mere novice at fine living - and now he came across as a native. Horace felt a fair degree of pride at that - and also that sense of soulfulness that mother Hippogriffs must feel when their foals take first wing to foreign climes.  
  
"Ah, Horace! How delightful to see you!"  
  
"Oleg, m'old tucker!" He embraced his chum warmly, with much back-slapping for old-times-sake - which was a bit difficult, given that they were similarly rotund, Oleg's slicked black hair contrasting only with Horace's own sandy pate. "And please, may I introduce my friend, Severus."  
  
"Any friend of your is a friend of mine! Delighted to make your acquaintance."   
  
Severus took the proffered hand and shook. "How do you do."  
  
"And now, do come in. You chaps must have some champagne!" At that, Oleg flicked his wand to draw back several floor-length curtains that separated the vestibule from the Grand Ballroom.  
  
Probably only Horace noticed Severus' soft intake of breath. He had to admit it, himself: it was jolly impressive. The ceiling had been charmed to look as if it was infinitely high, and the towering space above was filled with swathe upon cascade of glittering, shimmering chandeliers. There were at least twelve pyramids of champagne saucers, each as tall as two wizards, and an endless supply of auto-levitating magnums pouring upon them, the glasses overflowing into spouts and fountains below. The supper tables groaned with delicious treats - whole dressed birds and fish that were almost whales; sugary concoctions of such delicacy, they must have been supported by magic; and a rainbow array of tempting morsels, savoury and sweet, from every magical nation. Amid it all were the other guests, each exquisitely dressed and infinitely well-connected.  
  
A member of staff floated over with drinks, and then Horace did not know what fascinated him most: the food or the people. In his excitement, he quite forgot that it was a much larger party than either of them had been expecting.  
  
His tummy rumbled, and that made the decision. "How about a spot of supper, eh, m'boy? Can't socialize on an empty stomach, after all."  
  
Severus nodded, and they went to join the crowd about one of the tables, filling plates and tucking in with gay abandon; it did indeed taste as good as it looked.  
  
Time passed, as did, in turn, lots of interesting company. Horace introduced Severus to Oleg's family, - his lovely wife, Petrova, and two of their grandchildren, both at Durmstrang, - to several of his other old school friends, now all in high places, and to a stream of artists, sportsmen and academics - each engaging, pretty and oh so talented. It made Horace's address book dance in his pocket, just thinking about it. Severus had a long and involved conversation with the half-Ukrainian chap who was credited with the invention of Wolfsbane, and quizzed the captain of the Slovenian National Quidditch team assiduously about their prospects for the next season.   
  
He spoke knowledgeably about the opera - both Wizard and Muggle - and opined at length about the latest interpretation of 'The Three Brothers en Pointe' at the Paris ballet - a theme that was increasingly popular abroad, since rumours of the recent British unpleasantness began to trickle out. No-one showed any sign of recognising him from that, however; the elite moved in different circles, and Ministry tedium had no place here. Severus was simply accepted as one of the set: Potions expert, Defence specialist, conversational raconteur and stunning dresser.  _Exactly as it should be_ , thought Horace, now the other side of a fair amount of champagne,  _Exactly as it should be._  
  
When there was next a lull in company, Horace leaned over to ask, "How are you feeling, m'boy?"  
  
He was answered by Severus' characteristic half-smile, and a slight nod... and was then struck by the ridiculous notion that he could look upon that quirk of the lips forever.  
  
Horace shook his head a bit, to clear it. It was getting late; they would surely leave soon. Perhaps he needed some more dessert...  
  
He was just about to suggest a strategic refuel to Severus, prior to calling for a carriage, when he found their momentary privacy interrupted. The man in question had not previously been apparent that evening. He was tall, slender and dressed in figure-skimming periwinkle-blue in striking complement to the soft, blond curls that fell about his shoulders. An aquiline nose, and piercing blue eyes completed the vision; those eyes were aimed directly at Severus.  
  
"Good evening. I am Dimitri Vlatasalva, business partner of our host, tonight. I hope you don't mind if I join you?"  
  
"Horace Slughorn. Pleased to make your acquaintance." Horace extended his hand.  
  
-And then, something most unusual happened. The newcomer started, in pantomime, as if he had not noticed Horace there. He ignored the proffered palm, and muttered between pursed lips, "Of course." Then, he swivelled fully, placing himself between Horace and Severus and ignoring Horace entirely. "And may I have the pleasure of learning your name, my friend?"  
  
"Severus Snape; an honour."  
  
"Ah,  _Severus_. A Latin influence, I detect there. I imagine you are a man of great intellect." He swept his eyes from Severus' face, down across his delightful form - as if his intellect was the very last thing under consideration. "What is it you do, my friend?"  
  
By now, Severus was smooth at answering this one. "I brew. I write. I used to teach, but have rather finished with that, for the time being. And yourself?"  
  
"Me? Oh, many things, many things." He smiled; Horace was certain that he spotted sharp teeth. "It would be too dull to list them all, but suffice to say, I do well enough out of it." Dimitri smoothed down his robes, emphasizing the fineness of the fabric, and the elegance of the cut across his hips.  
  
Horace tried again. "A business partner of Oleg's, you say? Would that be the broomstick export, or perhaps the crystal ball manufacture?"  
  
It was as if he had not spoken, however. "Severus, my dear friend. It is becoming remarkably hot in here, do you not think? Would you like to take a turn with me, about the garden?" Dimitri extended his arm, formally, in Severus' direction. Horace's throat turned to ice.  
  
He saw Severus' eyes narrow just a shade. Anyone else would have missed it, but by now, Horace knew that expression, and it meant that Severus was considering. The pause stretched on, and Horace silently pleaded for Severus to look his way, so he could catch his eye, so they could both go home, safe and secure.  
  
But no such glance was to come. As smooth as ever, Severus made his reply. "Thank you. That would be delightful." He linked his arm through Dimitri's and they both glided away, through the throng, past the champagne, disregarding pudding and disappearing through the far curtains into acres and acres of manicured summer grounds, shadowy hedgerows and secret glades.  
  
Horace could only watch, his fingers going numb about the stem of his glass; Severus did not turn a backward glance.  
  
Objectively, they made such a beautiful pair: matched in height, so stately, the green velvet and pale blue silk lying in sweet contrast, like the nestle of leafy bower against moonlit sky, in secret assignation. It made Horace feel cold, and sick, and short and fat and sad.  _Of course Severus would want to leave him! The boy must have been bored senseless, having only an ugly old fool for company, all these months._ He grabbed another glass of champagne from a nearby pyramid and downed it. His feet ached and his voice was starting to feel hoarse; he supposed it was time to go home.  
  
"Horace! You're still here." Oleg called across to him, through the now-dwindling crowd.  
  
"Yes, it seems so."  
  
Oleg dashed over. -Well, as much a tipsy, round Russian might 'dash', that is - and, much as Horace loved his friend, he reflected again on what a washed-up old bunch they all really were. No wonder Severus was so easily moved by someone young and charming.   
  
As if he were a Legilimens, Oleg continued. "I saw your young friend go off with Dimitri Vlatasalva a moment ago. I do hope he knows what he's doing!"  
  
Horace gave a grim smile. "Yes; so do I."  
  
"Ha. A quick worker, that one. I've done some deals with him, but I'm not really sure that I trust him. Formidable reputation with the lads, though. You'll be lucky to see your attractive young friend again this side of New Year, I'd wager."  
  
It was likely true, and Horace knew that Oleg had meant no harm, but that was precisely not what he felt he could stand being told, just then. So, as ever, he resorted to retreat. "It's getting late. I daresay I should hop in a Hansom."  
  
In the carriage back to the hotel, Horace took no pleasure in the silken walls, or the splendid unicorns. It just didn't feel right anymore, on his own. He couldn't stop thinking about Severus - no doubt in deep _conversation_ , and more, with this shifty stranger.   
  
At that, Horace felt a violent surge of protectiveness and worry... and then reminded himself that the boy had been a  _Death Eater_  for Merlin's sake; if anyone was capable of looking after himself, it was Severus. He was then left no choice but to admit the truth: he, Horace, was fiercely jealous.  
  
 _You don't appreciate what you've got until it's gone_. The clunkiness of that old proverb ran through his mind in time with the bump of carriage over cobble, and a soulful theme from some Muggle musical wove in and out of his consciousness.  _I've grown accustomed to..._  
  
 _...his face.  
  
His smirk. The droop of his hair over his nose. His wit, his vocabulary, his didactic cleverness, the way he closes his eyes when he's tasting wine, the tilt of his head to one side when he's devising a killer comeback, the companionable silence when we sit together over brandy, the sad solemn way he might let slip a thing about his past, and the fact that he doesn't seem to mind too much when our hands meet on a decanter and hold one another, just for a second..._  
  
Horace nodded at the cab-driver and the hotel receptionist, and let himself in to his opulent room. For all the plush furnishings, it felt bleak and cold.   
  
He didn't bother to hang up his robes before collapsing into bed, and buried his face in the goose-down pillow. Trying to ignore the lump in his throat and the pricking in the corners of his eyes, Horace pulled the covers to his forehead and attempted to sleep.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
"Alohomora." The spell had been spoken softly, but years of living in hiding made Horace highly attuned to intruders. Within a second, he was Disillusioned, sitting up in bed with wand at the ready, and squinting into the darkened doorway.  
  
"Horace. It's me. You can stop that, now." Severus' tone was offhand, but not harsh.  
  
"Severus? But what...?" Still foggy from sleep, it was difficult to think straight. Wasn't Severus supposed to be with that damnable Russian?  
  
Horace dispelled the charm and Summoned his dressing gown from the back of the door, at the same time turning up the lights. Thus swathed, he stood and regarded Severus with a questioning look. "I must say, m'boy, this is quite unexpected. I was just getting forty winks, you know. Hadn't supposed I'd see you for some time." The reason for that supposition hung in the air. There was no need to spell it out; gentlemen knew how to be subtle.  
  
"Yes." Severus looked a little uncomfortable, but not to be dissuaded. He strode inside and closed the door behind him, still looking radiant in those velvet robes. "But I felt it shouldn't be left until morning."  
  
At that, Horace was somewhat intrigued. "What then, m'boy? You  _are_  alright, aren't you? Nothing nasty's happened to-"  
  
"-No. I'm fine. In fact, I think I'm better than 'fine'." He moved nearer, such that they were standing close; it was almost intimate. From there, Horace could see a flush climbing Severus cheeks and noticed the slight wave of his forelock; rose and ebony.   
  
"In the garden, this evening," Severus started, "As time passed I... realised I felt rather better. Able to face the world, again, that is. In order to prove that to myself, I attempted to cast the Patronus charm, again."   
  
He trailed off, the silence telling more than words ever could. "And then I realised I was in entirely the wrong place."  
  
Slowly, Severus drew his wand from his sleeve. He closed his eyes, looking for all the world sure and peaceful, and incanted the familiar words. As a supple, silvery frog coalesced in light and hopped about them, he turned to Horace. There was such trust, and hope, and attraction - gods, yes, it  _was_  attraction - in his eyes that Horace's heart at once did somersaults and plummeted in his chest at the secret he had been keeping.  
  
In that awful split second, Horace considered his options. The Slughorn of yore would always have taken the easy route: say nothing, let him assume, avoid confrontation - and he had to admit it; that voice was strong.   
  
However, he had grown. He had fought, he had been grateful, and he had vowed,  _no more guilty secrets_. -And it was with that spirit that Horace opened his mouth to put off the wonderful young man who had just come to his bedroom, even though he wanted him more than he could imagine wanting anything else. "Now, Severus, you really mustn't think that-"  
  
-He was silenced, however, by the touch of Severus' fingers to his lips, "Shhh." And then, any other words that Horace might have spoken were never given chance to light, as Severus captured his mouth in the deepest of kisses - passionate and questing, turning Horace's mind to candyfloss and his legs to jelly.  
  
Severus' graceful fingers tangled in his hair, and it was impossible not to return the embrace - oh, how he had longed to hold Severus like this! His hands danced along that elegant back, over his sides, and fondled that delightful bottom - the heat of Severus' body searing through the velvet, crying out to Horace all the more.  
  
They kissed, again and again, barely drawing breath. Horace felt dizzy, and more drunk than with any champagne. When Severus slipped his hands beneath Horace's robe and whispered, "I want you," darkly in his ear, that was Horace's absolute undoing. Clever fingers played on his nipples, around his belly and down to his aching cock - and Horace cried out, wordlessly, eyes shut, and overwhelmed.  
  
Then, all of a sudden, the contact was gone. Bereft, Horace's eyes snapped open, and he turned around to find that Severus had undressed entirely, and was sprawled across the bed, for his delectation.  
  
His breath caught once again at the sight; for all the times he had undressed Severus with his eyes, that evening, the reality was surpassingly gorgeous.  
  
Stretched out like that, Severus had all the best attributes of litheness and plumpness at once - like a well-fed kitten. His legs stretched on forever - shapely calves and thighs squirming impatiently on the crisp linen; buttocks round and smooth, just begging for teeth; strong shoulders and chest speckled neatly with dark hair; and the gentle curve of his belly, slightly soft at the edges and chock-full of fine things, as Severus rubbed it, nonchalantly; tantalizingly. To Horace, he looked the very picture of pleasure, of indulgence, and of lust - like a deliciously fallen angel; like all the world's supply of chocolate truffles at once. He could barely believe it was not a mirage.  
  
"You're ravishing," he breathed, not really noticing that his own dressing gown was hanging open, and his old, hefty body might be thought anything but.  
  
"Then come and ravish me."  
  
Horace did not need to be asked twice. He shrugged the dressing gown from his shoulders and fell onto the bed, beside Severus, hands at work upon every delicious plane and curve. Severus responded gloriously. He threw his head back and arched from the bed, gasping when Horace mouthed kisses along his throat, humming deeply when Horace rubbed his sated stomach, and spreading his legs when Horace stroked his thighs, open and hungry and needy. His cock was hard and red, and Horace delighted in slipping it between his lips, redoubling Severus' groans, and only feeding his own arousal.  
  
"More." Severus breathed the word, between gasps. "I need you. More."  
  
"More, m'boy?" Horace hummed around Severus' cock, making him clutch at the bedclothes. Then, he took Severus in his mouth once more, this time also fondling his balls with his spare hand, reaching lower. When Horace's finger traced lightly around his entrance, Severus cried out, almost as if in pain. "Yes! More..."  
  
At that, Horace summoned a pot of oil from his valet case, and slicked one fat finger. He pressed the tip at Severus' opening, then slid inside, to the first knuckle. "Yessss..." Severus hissed, pushing back, wanting more still. Horace was happy to oblige - thrusting deeper, adding a second digit and curling inside, questing for that sweet spot...  
  
"-Aaagh!" Severus almost leapt from the mattress when he found it. Merlin, the boy looked almost  _insanely_  beautiful like that - spread so wantonly, desperate for his contact; he was surely about to come at any moment.  
  
It was perhaps the last of those points that thrust Severus into action; if the lad was known for anything, it was his cast-iron control. In a flash, Horace found that Severus was no longer beneath him, but had sprung up and pushed Horace onto his back, holding him there with surprising strength. Horace was happy to submit - delighted, even. For all his own bulk, Severus had his arms pinned above his head and was kneeling astride his hips; he nearly felt delicate. Severus lunged forward with a hot, claiming kiss, and then grabbed the oil from the bedside table. He slathered Horace's cock, as it stood there to full attention, and then hissed with pleasure as he lowered himself upon it, being stretched wide by the thick length of it, and loving every moment.  
  
"Oh... Oh, Severus!" Horace cried, the sensation past exquisite. So hot and tight and lovely. Every inch of him throbbed, and he knew he could not last long.  
  
Then, Severus began to move - slowly at first; again, the control was remarkable. Horace felt absolutely at his mercy, and could not conceive of a better condition in which to ever be.  
  
Severus increased his pace, angling his body such that Horace's cock played across his prostate  _just so_ , and Horace bucked up to meet his thrusts, shaking the bed, and making his chest wheeze and his head spin at the glorious effort. Clenching about him, making his balls throb like never before, it was clear that Severus was close. He grabbed at Horace's flesh; kneading, luxuriating in it, as if all that extra weight could be somehow  _sensual_. Then, one final time, he tensed rigid with his head thrown back, and came copiously, bespattering them both.  
  
Of course, the sight of it, and the extraordinary feeling of Severus tightening around him so, was too much for Horace to bear. He shouted, then sobbed, as release flooded over him, his balls tightening almost painfully as he emptied his seed into Severus' tight young arse.  
  
 _Such dirty thoughts..._  Horace half-chastised himself,  _...such sublime actions._  
  
It took several moments for them both to catch their breath. Severus had collapsed forward onto Horace's chest, and Horace felt like an extremely lucky beached whale - every muscle and tendon was limp, and he couldn't have moved even if he had wanted to - which he most assuredly didn't.  
  
Slowly - perhaps minutes, perhaps hours later - someone stirred. They cast cleaning charms, and, just as the first dawn light scratched at the curtains, they settled in to bed properly.  
  
Severus rested his head on Horace's chest, an arm slung across his belly. Horace embraced him thus, with a palm nestled in to the junction of Severus' waist and hip; it was almost as if the shape had been designed especially for his hand. He hugged Severus tight, sated and slumberous - and as they both fell into a doze, a nag at the back of Horace's mind said there was something wrong, something he should have said... but Horace could not quite remember what it was.  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
The next morning, Horace woke to find Severus sitting up in bed, staring on, as a silvery crow flapped circuits of the bedroom. The boy's eyes followed it, around and around, and contained such soulfulness, Horace felt immediately moved. Severus remained still as Horace sat up and put an arm round his shoulders, the two of them still naked beneath the sheets.   
  
After a long moment, and keeping his gaze all the while on the bird, Severus said simply, "I don't understand." He inhaled deeply through his nose, as if girding himself to speak. "I haven't seen this bird since I was a child."   
  
Sadness for all that he was about to lose pricked at his mind, but Horace could not bear to see Severus looking so lost again; there was no choice. So, the cloud of midnight lust now gone, he sighed deeply, knowing that it was time to be responsible, for once. "Severus, m'boy. There's something I need to tell you. -Should have told you a while back, I suppose... It's about your Patronus."  
  
At that, Severus flinched under his touch and looked suddenly suspicious. His face hardened - but not in a vindictive way; more like a patched up china vase that simply could not bear to be broken once again.  
  
"Hush," said Horace, rubbing small circles on his back, even though Severus had not spoken. "Look, it's nothing like that, nothing nasty. Just hear me out." No interruption came, so he went on. "When you were found in the Shrieking Shack, you were unconscious, and remained so for almost two days. They thought you were stable, but I was called in the middle of the night, just when it looked as though we were going to lose you. You Patronus had become.. disembodied. It was just floating there, and didn't have any form, flickering dimmer and dimmer. There's no way of knowing, but I'd have a fair guess that it somehow saved you, after that bite. Absorbed the Dark magic, in exchange for its form, maybe.   
  
"But anyway, it wasn't going to last, and neither were you. I'm not sure why, but it felt the right thing to do in the heat of the moment: I cast my Patronus, and it sort of... interacted - nothing dodgy, mind! - with yours. It gave it a shape to copy, I suppose. And then you came round, so you know the rest."  
  
There was silence, as Severus took all of that in. Finally he said, "I see. Thank you." It sounded rather strained.  
  
"Tush, no need to thank me! I only did what I could." Horace still felt on a knife-edge.  
  
"So that goes some way to explaining..." Severus trailed off, letting the sentence hang. Horace had the sense that if there was any uncertainty there, it was the moment to fight his - dare he even think  _their_  - corner. It was probably the only chance he would get.  
  
With that in mind, an uncharacteristic flurry of bravery seized Horace inside. Like Hogwarts, he had a sense that this was worth fighting for. "-Explaining what, m'boy?" He started, tone impassioned. "If you're wondering whether our current association, our current  _position_ ," He gestured to them both, there in bed together, "Can be explained away through some bit of emergency magic in whose thrall you fell - I say: poppycock!  
  
"I don't think that would be magically possible - do you? Love - not that I'm presuming, mind; not at all - but those deeper and stronger sorts of  _finer feelings,_  are the one thing that no spell can pin down; you know it as well as I. 'Twould be breaking Gamp's Law. And besides, do you really think that Severus Snape, possibly the most stubborn wizard who ever lived, could really fall easy prey to such things? I don't."  
  
Severus snorted, although whether it was out of amusement or derision was not clear. "What, then? You saved my life. And then you decided to save it again?" He glanced around at the palatial room; the fine clothes; Horace's full diary on the bedside table.  
  
"Well, yes... And, no." He hadn't expected that one. "I have to admit - and I'm sorry about this, but I ought to say - that it wasn't really my choice, at first. But!" Horace was keen to get the latter point over with, "But, I have to say, that as soon as I  _was_  spending time with you, it was exactly what I found myself wanting to be doing, more and more so, each day." A smooth-talker by nature, Horace was himself struck by how very real that statement was, no gloss required.  
  
Again, Severus was quiet; Horace fervently hoped that his words had not gone unnoticed. But when Severus spoke again it took a different tack: "Then perhaps your Patronus had some other effect: it made me more like you?"  
  
"Mmmm... ha!" Horace smiled then, somewhat satirically, hoping he could see another chink. "That's one I've been pondering myself, for the past few months, even though in all honestly, I've tried not to. Tell me, m'boy - do you feel at all like someone other than yourself? Do you feel different this morning to how you felt last night? "  
  
Severus' answer came, but very quietly. "At first, I felt like... no-one at all. Everything was gone.  _I_  was gone - in everything but flesh, that is. There was nothing there at all.   
  
"And then... well, there was you. You gave me some reason to get up in the morning - or, in the evening, to be precise - and I found it was... enjoyable. For which I should also thank you, I suppose." He paused, as if weighing his words; Horace felt increasingly nervous. Finally, Severus gave his verdict: "I acknowledge, therefore, that your logic must be correct. Last night, I recognised that I was restored - and I am quite sure that said restoration was to  _my_  proper state, not to the guise of a Slughorn; I could never deal with being so fuzzy-headed, personally." He paused, giving a quirk of the lips, and Horace beamed at that, even though he was being mocked. "This morning it is still the case; I feel - whether it is for good or bad - still precisely to be myself. So, that has been constant, even though my Patronus has not."  
  
At that, Horace felt his mind flood with relief; he hadn't wanted to be thought some nasty trickster, not by this dearest of boys. "You're quite right: The Severus Snape I know would never turn into an old duffer like me!"  
  
"Mmmm!" The grunt was indignant.  
  
"And that Patronus business? Well, I daresay you might have been lent a touch of protection and positivity when it was fitting, 'tis all. Just as that doe of yours did, when she pulled you back through - or so it appears to me, at least.  
  
"-And perhaps that made you a bit more likely to say 'yes' when I first asked you to come to dinner - or perhaps it had no effect at all. I would say, though, that it doesn't really matter; we're here now, you had a bit of help when you needed it, and now you don't! So that's just as it should be."   
  
As he finished that point, Horace tried to sound pleased. Really, he was - of  _course_  he was pleased that Severus was back to himself, and that sweet little frog was no longer. He just had to ignore the nagging voice within that said he would miss Severus, now that he, Horace, was no longer needed. He would miss Severus an awful lot.  
  
Trying to lighten the mood - and to forget that this would likely be their first and last morning together - Horace carried on. "So, I would say, m'boy, the only thing you might have gotten from me is a healthier appetite." He reached over with his other hand to pat Severus' delightful little belly, "And that's done you the power of good, even though I say so myself!"  
  
Severus snorted again, but this time it was clear he was laughing. "Mmmph... What's for breakfast?"  
  
Returning that grin, Horace cast the hotel's trademarked charm for room service, and two trays laden with bacon, pastries, smoked salmon and chocolate fancies appeared on their laps.  
  
Severus raised his eyebrows at yet another luxury of the well-heeled, but quickly tucked in. "It seems that living on adrenaline alone is only suitable for spies. It's such a relief to not feel so sick all the time that one can never be hungry." He took a particularly large bite of croissant, to make his point.  
  
They ate for a while, in companionable quietude. A fair few rashers of bacon later, Severus nodded once again at his crow, which was still doing ceiling laps. "Has yours always been the same?"  
  
"What, old Aristophanes?" Horace replied, "Yes, pretty much. He took a brief sabbatical as a Phoenix when I was in my twenties... but luckily we both saw the folly in that idea. He's got fatter and wartier over the years - no prizes for guessing why - but has always been there, with me."  
  
"Mmmmm."  
  
"-And I must say, I am delighted to make Aesop's acquaintance."  
  
"Who?" Severus frowned.  
  
"Aesop," Horace pointed to the silvery crow as he flapped and glided there, "I wagered you'd never given the poor chap a name."  
  
Severus gave an elegant shrug, but did not argue. "'Aesop' it is, then."  
  
Breakfast was nearly at an end by that point, and the gaping questions of the rest of the day - month, year - were beginning to loom in Horace's mind. He tried to broach it, gently. "So, I guess, m'boy, that you'll be off doing lots of interesting things from now on. You won't be needing me, anymore, that's for sure... but maybe you could pop by every so often to say 'hello', eh? For old times' sake." He gave a brave smile, trying to equally-bravely ignore the moisture pooling in the corner of one eye.  
  
Severus turned to look at him directly, expression unreadable, but very intense. "If that is your desire, then I shall." An awful gap, where Horace suddenly wondered if he had said entirely the wrong thing. "But now that I am restored fully to my sensibilities, I feel that I have every ability to make my own choices. And thus - if it were to be compatible with your wishes - I feel that I should indeed like to go and do many interesting things... but with you at my side."  
  
"Oh Severus!" Horace hugged him tight, quite overcome. "My dear, dear, boy; I would like nothing more." They kissed, lightly at first to seal the pact, but then with increasing heat. Horace banished the breakfast trays and drew Severus close, feeling his delicious body against his own skin and wondering on every level how he could be so lucky.  
  
In putting down his wand to spoon nearer, Severus ended the Patronus charm. He watched as Aesop vanished. "You never know, it might change again, someday. -Or yours might."  
  
Horace wrapped his arms around Severus' lithe form, squeezing his backside. "Or meld! They can do that, you know. Gods, the only thing I can think of that is less attractive than a flying pig, is a winged frog - don't you think?"  
  
Severus smiled, and took Horace's hand. "In that case, my dear, it would suit us perfectly."  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
"Horace. About time, too. You're twenty minutes late." Minerva dispensed her greeting as Horace entered the meeting room, "And- ...Oh my goodness." She stopped short as Severus strode in, after him.  
  
The pair stood, side by side, nodding acknowledgements at the various members of staff, as they all gazed on. The pair were thoroughly unruffled to have disturbed proceedings previously in full-flow; indeed, Horace felt rather smug.  
  
"Severus," began Minerva, a little stiffly, "It's good to see you."  
  
"Back from the moon, then?" Rolanda put in, satirically, "Enjoying the life of Riley?"  
  
Severus answered that one very smoothly. "Only St. Petersburg, actually. And yes, it has been in many ways rather wonderful. I have Horace to thank for that."  
  
He glanced over at Horace, who felt his heart do the tango at those words, and that look.  
  
"Well, we're delighted to see you looking better!" Poppy said, with genuine care - and a murmur of agreement passed among the others. "We were all very worried."  
  
"Worried?" Severus asked that with a fair slice of disbelief - as if it had not occurred to him that anyone would have been concerned either way.  
  
"Yes, worried." Minerva concurred, gravely. "And, guilty. It seems that we..." She paused to correct herself, "...that  _I_... owe you an apology." Now the boy really  _did_  look surprised. "I am so sorry, Severus." Minerva continued with nothing but sincerity. "For so many things. For distrusting you. Thwarting you. - And then, for not understanding what you needed, when you might have needed something the most."  
  
Severus went very still as Minerva spoke. To others, it might have appeared surly, but Horace had the distinct sense that he was processing those words, and they meant an awful lot to him. After a considerable pause, he replied, "And I'm sorry for being nastier than was always strictly necessary."   
  
Severus had delivered it straight, but there was something in the tone - an invisible raised eyebrow - that for some reason, Horace found remarkably funny. He felt his moustache twitch, then his diaphragm wobble... and then, when he couldn't contain it any longer, he erupted into laughter - great peals of the stuff, which echoed around the wood-panelled room.  
  
At first, everyone looked puzzled - their gazes travelling between Horace, Minerva, and Severus and back again. But then, it seemed it was contagious. Giggles and chortles and chuckles sprang into life around him, gathering pace and multiplying, until all of the staff were laughing whole-heartedly, bent double with it, and wiping tears from their eyes.  
  
Pomona and Filius leapt up to embrace Severus, and several others shook his hand and clapped him on back - even Rolanda. The boy looked as if he had never had so much positive attention, and blinked slightly, perhaps wondering if it were true.  
  
"Welcome back, my dear."  
  
"Good to see you!"  
  
"We can't thank you enough for everything you did."  
  
"Do join us for dinner tonight, won't you?"  
  
When the commotion had died down, and all were a little dazed and beaming, Minerva summoned the presence of mind to ask a pressing question: "Well then, you two - what happens now?"  
  
"Now?" Horace replied. "Right now, I'd say it's getting on for supper-time, and I've asked the elves to make something a little special. But I suspect, dear girl, you were asking about after that." Minerva gave him an impatient nod. "Well, Severus and I have had a bit of a chat, and it occurs to us that there's a fair deal of world out there.   
  
"One can't float around forever, of course, but a bit of floating is likely good for the soul. So, we've decided to take a sabbatical for a year, and go and see some of it." Minerva opened her mouth to object, but Horace was ready, raising a finger to silence her in advance. "Now, don't think I'd leave you in the lurch. Oh, no! I wouldn't do that. As it happens, I've just received an owl from the one and only Damocles Belby - you know, the chap with the Wolfsbane - saying that he did so enjoy our little chat last night that he would be  _delighted_  to cover Potions at Hogwarts for a year. So, I do believe you're more than adequately sorted, on that front." He gave her a satisfied grin, and reached out, finding Severus' hand to give it a subtle squeeze. A few months ago, Horace had been feeling surprisingly positive; now he was the very picture of a lamb in clover, and couldn't help but show it.  
  
Minerva took all that in, looking at Horace and Severus standing side by side there - an unlikely but effective little team. She smiled, with genuine pleasure. "Very well, then. -And when the two of you get back, do consider that we shall be needing a DADA instructor, in addition to the return of our Potions Master; the new lad can only stay for a year."  
  
Severus nodded. "I shall bear that in mind. Perhaps, for the first time ever, it shall feel like coming home."

 


End file.
